


Cleaning the Attic

by Papillonae



Series: HWD Event: Her Kind (2018) [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America mention, As Opposed to Storage Cleaning, Attic Cleaning, Childhood Memories, Drama, Gen, Genderbends Exist Alongside the Canon Universe Characters, Memories, The Author Was Really Reaching You Guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 00:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14273265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: Short re-imagining of America's Storage Cleaning, but from a modern America's perspective.Written for the Hetalia Writers Discord Female Characters Event, Day 2: Memories.





	Cleaning the Attic

It took throwing all her weight upon it, but finally - America was able to prop the crawlspace hatch to the attic open with a loud groan of old wood.

It was on her own insistence that she decided to clean out her attic years after she had cleaned out her storage shed. Both times, Lithuania was with her – working for her in the past, and visiting her in the present.

“Are you sure you won’t need any help cleaning up there?” Lithuania called up from the bottom of the folding ladder.

America looked back down at her, stifling a bubbly laugh. “Ruthie, I’ll be fine. Really!” 

She nodded her head toward the end of the hallway as she climbed up another rung. “Why don’t y’all head back to the parlor room and relax? I’ll be down in two shakes of a tail.”

Lithuania looked back down at her hands gripping the ladder with a small, bashful smile. “Then… let me at least make some coffee,” she offered again. America looked back down at her, a certain warmth lightly touching her cheeks. _Sure brings back memories…_

“Coffee would be right nice.” And with that, she turned her attention back up toward the crawlspace, where she climbed off of the ladder and into the attic.

She was thankful for her small height – Lithuania wouldn’t have fit up here anyway. And besides, she wasn’t looking to get rid of anything this time.

America reached out a hand to pull long, dusty cobwebs away from her as she moved through the attic. It was illuminated only by the natural sunlight coming in from the large round window overlooking the rest of the well-kept neighborhood. Small appliances and furniture pieces were covered in gauzy cream-colored sheets, and stacks of cardboard boxes were towered high in the far corners collecting dust.

With a finger, she swept at the small coffee table before her and withdrew a powdery white index finger. There was work to be done. America rolled up her sleeves and straightened the utility belt of cleaning supplies she had looped around her waist. Earlier in the weekend, she and Lithuania had crafted it together.

Anyone could say what they wanted about it, but she admittedly felt like a badass as she clapped the feather duster in her hands and set to work on the cobwebs.

* * *

The cleaning had been going well, even through all the sneezing and wrenching the round window open. It wasn’t until she reached for her cleaning wipes that America felt a sharp corner connect with her elbow, followed by the sound of broken glass. 

 _Shit_.

America put aside her cleaning supplies to check on the broken object that had fallen to the floor after she nudged her elbow against the unsteady armoire. It was a picture frame, though the glass was now in pieces on the floor.

Carefully, she picked up the frame and turned it over to see what photo was inside…

* * *

_“Emily Eleanor Jones, come on out, we’re waiting…”_

_She’s been squeezed in a dress that has just a little too much poof in the petticoat. It’s not as freeing as her breeches or a smock, but at least in a dress she looks like a proper young lady. And that was a good thing… right?_

_With a resigned sigh, she turns around and returns to the family room._

_Miss Alice is waiting there on the sofa, arms folded over her chest the way she usually does when she’s getting fed up. But her expression visibly softens when their eyes meet. “Emily, you look beautiful!”_

_The photographer, who is set up a few feet away from the sofa, is fussing underneath the dark blanket behind the lens. He peeks up from beneath it to catch a glimpse at her, then nods and continues setting up._

_While she doesn’t agree with how she looks, she nods and smiles back all the same. If it means a lot to Miss Alice that she wears a dress for this family portrait, then she’ll bear with it. As long as Miss Alice is happy, so is she…_

* * *

America’s eyes lingered on the picture before she folded it and tucked it into her jeans pocket. She figured she would get a new frame for that later. 

As she continued cleaning through the attic, she found some old dresses on a dress rack, all of them hung in plastic bags to preserve them. She chuckled a little at the sight and gently unzipped one out of curiosity. 

She had always been a bit of a tomboy since her childhood, but these days America would admit that every once in a while it was nice to feel a little bit pretty.

When she took the dress out for inspection, she recognized it as a very old dress. The mothballs had done nothing to protect it from being eaten a little, but she didn’t seem to mind it as much. She examined one long sleeve, and as she reached for the other, she noticed how detached it was from the shoulder. 

It was almost as if this dress had been ripped…

* * *

_The scent of mothballs rises from the click of her suitcase shutting. America sits on top of it, struggling to keep all of her belongings inside. There are sleeves and bloomers poking out of the sides, but she doesn’t care. She’s in a hurry._

_She’s nearly to the door when she sees England from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t have time to react – there’s a sharp slap and she falls to the floor with a stinging pain against her cheek._

_England is weeping. She never weeps openly like this. She’s upset. She knows._

_“So that’s it then?” England asks, accusingly, “You’re just going to leave? And follow your foolhardy brother out West?”_

_America touches her cheek thoughtfully, gets up, dusts herself off, and continues toward the door. She’s unable to look England in the eye. If she does, she knows she’ll have to stay. She’s been complacent enough._

_“Emily, wait—!”_

_There is a distinct weight that pulls her back by her suitcase, accompanied by a distinct ripping of cloth – a sleeve from a dress she didn’t particularly care for. It’s enough to get England to let go._

_“Emily… please…”_

_The name makes America’s hand stop, hovering inches just above the door handle. Her heart is like lead in her chest as she hears England behind her, stifling sobs._

_“My name… is Amelia Jones.” It comes out in a tight voice. “Emily is the girl who would stay with you and do whatever it took to please you. I’m sorry.”_

_She opens the door, closes it behind her, and doesn’t look back even once._

_Emily would have wanted to please Miss Alice._

_Amelia knew that there was no pleasing her._

* * *

 

America crawled over to the opening she came up in and called down to her guest: “Ruthie, sweetie, I’m ready to come down! Y’all hang tight, okay?”

To which she heard Lithuania’s distant, but eager reply, “Coffee is ready, Miss Amelia!”

It didn’t take much more convincing than that for America to scramble back down the folded ladder. As she lightly jogged into the parlor, clouds of dust followed in her wake, exploding into puffs with each step she took.

When Lithuania turned to greet her, she couldn’t help but laugh. America frowned. “What? What is it?” And Lithuania took one of the dusting towels from the utility belt and dusted a little at America’s hair, rubbing at her dusty cheek with the attention of a mother. It was enough to make her blush.

“O-okay, okay Ruthie, I think I’m well-dusted like the attic now…” 

“Sorry,” Lithuania apologized with a small smile before escorting America over to the sofa. At the coffee table was a tray with two mugs of coffee, a sugar bowl, and a small cup of milk. The two claimed their mugs, fixed their coffee, and began their idle talk. America took the photo from her pocket and showed it to Lithuania, lamenting the broken picture frame she had to clean up.

Lithuania flipped the photo over and glanced over at the names on the back. “Oh – that reminds me,” she said, reaching over to pull some envelopes off of the end table, “your mail arrived today… though I feel like this last letter contains a bit of a typo…”

America tilted her head and took the letters from Lithuania. As she sifted through her mail, mostly junk mail and small bills, she saw a handwritten red envelope addressed to her:

_Amelia E. E. Jones_

She looked at the address on the back of the envelope, and chuckled softly to herself. “It’s alright, this isn’t a typo. It’s my full name.”

Times and people change… yet there are those memories, like a broken frame or a seam tear, which remain quite present and inescapable.

Even after all this time, America still felt the need to open the envelopes with the extra ‘E’ on them, just in case.


End file.
